War of Vengeance
by Stardust1313
Summary: Vengeance. The dark lord Sauron had once had a firm reign on middle earth. He had once caused terror to race across every corner of the world. But he was defeated, by a man. Now, four hundred years later, he is back...with vengeance in his heart.


Prolugue- WOV  
-FOURTH AGE-  
~Mordor~  
"Warriors!" One of Sauron's lieutenants-or so he thought - Carurcyn, leader of the easterlings, ruthless, blood thirsty, and power hungry, seemingly made for war, called to the army of orcs and men. He thought himself a lieutenant, but really, he was just a small general of a small part of Saurons army of orcs, trolls, men, and so on.  
"This is the day we destroy one of the remaining seven clans!" He roared to his army, sword raised in the air. "We attack the dwarves of Erebor this very night, while they are hungry and wounded. We will crush them, and take the stronghold. It will be a crucial part of claiming Greenwood.  
"Next morning, we will be rolling in the riches of Erebor!"  
And the army cheered.

~Erobor~  
Hoigan was tired. Deathly tired. And he hated it. Stumbling over a golden cup decorated lavishly with jewels, and spilling some of the precious water he carried on his shoulders, he kicked it away in disgust. Money. Jewels. Gold. Silver. What were the use of those if they couldn't buy a single thing? No many dared venture out of the walls of the lonely mountain to hunt or gather water. And while the elves in Greenwood must have no problem surviving, they dared not fight through the vast armies hidden around the single, solitude mountain to aid their ally's. Hoigan didn't blame them. There was no problem of feuding within the races. There hadn't been any since the second rise of Sauron, fifty years ago, when the final palantir had slipped out of their grasp. The races worked together to survive, to fight.  
Hoigan kicked a leather bag of gems to the side of the corridor ferociously. They wouldn't survive much longer.  
Setting down his bucket full of water, Hoigan dumped a cup into it, and handed the cup to two dwarves slumped against the wall, breathing hard but not hurt badly. They had to share. They, and and everyone else in the mountain knew how little water and food they had. They had only riches.  
Hoigan snorted as he recollected the cup, resuming his walk down the corridor. It seemed like such a cruel joke: A hundred years ago, people had enough food and water, and yearned for riches. Now? Riches were positively useless. Passing one of the three dozen men from Laketown, he offered the man water.  
He waved the cup away, though. "Save it." He said gruffly. "There are others who need it more then I." He was sharpening a long, silver sword on a stone. It made a bright 'Shing' every time it was sliced against the stone. Studying the man closely, Hoigan saw that it was Bard II, great grandson of the first Bard the bowman, the one who had led the few remaining men of Laketown to Erebor.  
Not stopping to talk, Hoigan nodded curtly in reply, before heading to the second level of the mountain hall.  
Halfway up the steps, he stumbled yet again to the side, crashing against the wall, and sent more of the water down the steps. What was it? He froze. There was nothing he had slipped on... Again, a large rumble spread throughout the halls, and panicked yells echoed through the mountain, accompanied with the sound of many weapons being drew.  
And with a third crash, the mighty wood and steel door of the greatest dwarven kingdom ever founded, crashed to the stone floor.

~Greenwood~

"My King. The invasion on Erebor has begun." A single warrior, clad in his armor, a bloody bandage around his neck, and a few flecks of dried blood on the hilt of his sword, knelt before King Thranduil. The King himself looked tired and weary, and like the soldier, he was in his armor, his weapons slung on his back, ready for war. But unlike the dwarves, the forest was providing everyone with food and water, while the smiths worked day and night, providing backup weapons.  
"And are we in any state to help?" He questioned the soldier.  
"Perhaps, My King. Our warriors are tired from the siege from the orcs a few days ago. But at least a third are more then ready for battle. However, the army around Erebor is great, and only with at least half of our number could we be a help to the dwarves."  
Thranduil gripped the sides of his throne tight. "How of the dwarves of the Iron Hills? Would they aid their brethren?"  
"They cannot, my King."  
"Very well...I will think of this. Thank you."  
The soldier bowed, and retreated from the room, large, wooden doors closing silently behind him.  
King Thranduil sighed, rubbing his hands on his temples, and sinking back onto his throne.  
"My King?" Perlisias stepped out from the shadows of her kings throne. She was dressed, not in armor but green camouflage, a dark silver cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Perched on her shoulder, was a gray and white bird. "We can help them, can't we? We HAVE to help them."  
"Not with our numbers, we cannot." He replied instantly. "We will kill ourselves."  
"We can't just leave them there to die!" Perlisias protested. "We need them!"  
"Yes we do, but not by the lives of our own! Not by ourselves!" The King snapped back just as fast as his last reply.  
"Perhaps I could send a letter to Lorien. If Cilias is fast enough-"  
"If Cilias is fast enough, then Lorien will be overrun and burnt down by next sunrise." King Thranduil interrupted.  
"But-"  
"No." He held up a hand. "But I will not let our allies die, and become slaves to Sauron."  
Perlisias raised an eyebrow, surprised at her kings answer. "You won't?"  
"It does not matter if the mountain is taken, not yet. But the lives of our ally's, friends-those do." He fixed one of his most trusted lieutenants with a piercing stare. "Take five of your soldiers. They have to be light on their feet, and accomplished with their weapons. You leave as soon as possible, towards Erebor. Take whoever that is still alive, along the safest route you can find."  
Perlisias lifted her green eyes, flickering like gems in the firelight. "It is impossible."  
"No, it is not." Thranduil countered. "I have faith, that you will return. Now, go. Every second matters."  
The warrior and assassin stared, for a another second, before turning, and backing out of the hall.  
Perlisias hadn't just been given a mission. She'd basically been given a death sentance.  
-Gondor-  
The white city. Gworraent scoffed, as he stood at the very top of the great structure. Well, once great. Most of the lower levels had crumbled into ruin-the work of the orcs that raided the city every few days, led by the Blade of Terror:Dwar, one of the nine. Just the thought of that creature sent a shudder through Gworraent. Horrible, that nazgul. Ruthless, and powerful. With a single strike of his sword, he had bought down a dozen of the city's finest soldiers, along with a few rangers.  
Gworraent's hand tightened on the handle of his sword. He remembered the aura that the nazgul had sent rippling through the city...bringing despair, and fear to every single corner of every room.  
The ring wraith had demolished the lowest level of the city alone, before retreating back to darkness, launching huge blocks of stone towards the city every few hours, keeping the terror fresh. The stones, upon closer look, were actually human heads fused together with dark magic. Gworraent's sister had taken one look at the thing and passed out.  
Every single person in the city was scared. Scared for everything. Every bird passing over by was like an enemy arrow, every shadow was like Dwars aura.  
Gworraent decided to avoid shadows for the rest of the battle.  
Drawing his long silver sword, he hefted his broad silver shield onto his arm. The next jab was about to start. But where-that could not be answered.  
Perhaps the armpit.  
-Rivendell-  
Ailadith fingered the smooth, pale gold silk that billowed from the roof of the room. She was tired of waiting. Ever since the threatening letter sent to the leaders of Imladris, Elladan and Elrohir, every able fighter in the last homely house-which might soon be renamed last mass grave before the misty mountains-, had been stationed around the valley. She was on a break. It would be over, though, in a few moments. Sighing, she shouldered her bow and quiver, checking that her thin, long sword was tucked into its sheath, Ailidith stalked out of the room, sun glinting on her pale golden hair, which was braided down her back, far away from her eyes.  
Breathing in the cool, sweet air, the elleth set down nimbly towards the riverbank, where she and twenty other elves were set. Kneeling down, she melted into the landscape, glancing up at the sun, tensing, and drawing an arrow.  
The letter had been written in blood, and had clearly stated that when the sun was at its lowest point before it sank, they would have a nasty surprise. And it was almost time.  
Even as she nocked the arrow onto her bow, Ailidith began to feel it: a creeping feeling of fear, sinking into her bones, trying to convince her to lay down and give up all she had.  
Only one creature in middle earth had that power...  
The nazgul had come.  
-Iron hills-  
Voimli glanced at the remaining hundred warriors of the Iron Hills, then around at his home. "We should go." He said, breaking the spell of silence around the caves.  
His fellow warriors nodded assent. They were heading towards Lorien, hoping for the help of the elves, for a home. Theirs was practically destroyed.  
Together, they set out of their haven, forming a rugged circle, warriors outside, others inside. The few children didn't make a single sound, picking up the sad and sour mood around them.  
Step by step, the golden wood came ever closer, until, a few days later, they arrived.  
-Rohan  
Elrethial smoothed her hand down the horses mane. Ybirawien wasn't her horse, but the beautiful princess of Rohan, Haiweth's. Elrethial herself was just a lowly servant, and tending the white mare was just one of her many jobs.  
"Elrethial." A crisp, clear voice sounded at the entrance of the stables, and she stood, keeping a calming hand on Ybirawien's back, as she faced the newcomer.  
Princess Haiweth strode inside, her deep blue and gold skirts trailing behind her in a willow of silk, and Elrethial felt a stab of jealousy. It wasn't fair, but she curtsied, all the same, her plain, patched up brown dress looking ever more ugly beside Haiweth.  
"May I help you, my Lady?" Elrethial questioned, feeling rather self conscious of her dark brown hair tied carelessly down her back, the smudge of dirt on her cheek.  
"Hmmm?" The princess was stroking her horses side, but at Elrethials question she straightened gracefully, sapphire blue eyes glimmering like pools of spring water. "Ah, yes, Elrethial. As you know, Rohan is partially destroyed." Haiweth stated, and Elrethial remembered the horrible battle days ago, orcs and trolls tearing a path of destruction through the city, leaving only the palace intact. "We have decided to move to helms deep, but before...there will be a feast, a ceremony, to be more exact. It was laid down clearly by our ancestors that if we ever have to leave the Mark, a ceremony will have to be held. So, you will be coming with me. You are my highest maid, so you will need to be dressed in something...other then this."  
Elrethial bit her lips at the news, and felt a surge of anger at the jibe against her clothes. Of course, she knew that Heiweth didn't mean anything of it, but it still stung.  
"Of course, my lady." Elrethial said, leading Ybirawien back into her stable, and locking the door behind her. Haiweth had already glided out of the room, a train of golden silk flying behind her.  
With a last glance back, Elrethial followed.  
-Lorien-  
Caengwen stormed under the golden mallow trees, red cloak snapping behind him. He hated border patrol. It was tiring, it was worthless. Nothing was attacking them, nothing would attack them from that side of the wood. No one would cross the chasm at least fifty feet deep, created from an attack years and years ago. But knowing his luck, the one day Caengwen would take a break, was the day an army would march into the golden wood. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, Caengwen reached his patrol spot, waiting for a random enemy to pop out in front of him.  
To his utter surprise, an Orc came charging towards him, stepping on nothing but air. The scene was so bizarre, Caengwen pinched himself hard on the arm a few times, and when the Orc did not disappear, he raised a long, golden horn to his lips and blew, once, twice, before dropping it and raising his sword to parry the orcs first strike, and slice of its head. Stabbing the second one that came to him in the gut, he leapt down from his tree, spinning around and cutting the third across the heart. Blowing his horn again, Caengwen could hear the sounds of help coming. And that was good, because more orcs were coming, flying towards them as fast as their heavy armor and undeveloped legs would allow them.  
As the first few elves reached him, Caengwen crouched as a wave of arrows sailed of over his head towards the enemy.  
Perhaps border patrol wasn't so bad.


End file.
